The Art and Science of Lock Picking
by fornwalt
Summary: Heist Society oneshot. "I was the one who happened to be home the night Kat came to steal a Monet." Mild Kat x Hale. CHAPTER 2 UP!
1. The Art and Science of Lock Picking

A/N: First Heist Society fanfiction on this website, if I'm not mistaken? Woot for me! :P Anyway, we're all wondering how Hale and Kat actually met. And when Ally Carter provided us with a nice little prompt, I of course had to write my own depiction of their first meeting. So, enjoy! :D

Obviously I don't own Heist Society. And I'm having a hard time deciding who I like more: Hale or Zach.

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**The Art and Science of Lock Picking**

"_I'm the guy who happened to be home the night Kat came to steal a Monet."_

Kat crept towards the manor, silently treading the path she knew would get her into the exact room she needed to be, the exact room in which a priceless and lovely Monet was currently hanging above a pianoforte, the exact room where that same Monet wouldn't be hanging in an hour's time. She'd cased the mansion for days—there was no one but a butler who kept the place clean, and he always retired to his room at precisely eleven every evening. The rest of the manor was completely deserted.

The security system was poorly outdated: a Genie 5000. Expensive and flashy, but rather impractical at actually alerting the homeowners of intruders. Really, they'd have been better off with a personalized Garbson; it was cheaper, and its pressure sensitive alarm system would easily ensure that no thief could break in through a window. Of course, she wasn't looking a gift horse in the mouth. For tonight, she was grateful they'd installed the Genie 5000. It made her job _so_ much easier.

Maybe she'd leave a note where the Monet now hung, advising them to downgrade to a Garbson.

She reached the house, looking three stories up to see the window that she knew led into the room with her painting. It was dark, as planned, and she was smiling as she gripped the white fence that the thick ivy grew on and pulled herself up. Really, these rich people made it too easy. They practically _paved_ the path to that priceless painting.

It took exactly two and a half minutes to reach the window, and she made herself comfortable on the little ledge as she picked the lock. She couldn't see into the room—heavy drapes assured that—but she wasn't worried. Her Monet would be hanging above the pianoforte, she had no doubt. It was just a simple matter of grabbing it.

The minute Kat eased the window open—though it looked about as old as the Monet she was there to steal, its silent hinges betrayed its actual age—she was hit by a wall of warm air. In contrast to the chill of winter not yet spring, the heat was inviting and for a moment she almost forgot what, exactly, a heated room meant. But her father's constant advice, her mother's age-old training, made her tense and wonder if the mission were completely compromised.

Because heat meant people. And people meant _witnesses_. Kat was a thief, not a robber; she had no intention of knocking someone down to get her prize. Especially not on her first solo heist.

But she peeked through the heavy drapes covering the window anyway, because she hadn't come this far to stop due to a minor setback. Her eyes scanned the room and quickly sighted the offending someone, the reason a fire was crackling merrily in a room that _should_ have been cold and empty, and she let out a silent breath in relief. It was a boy, roughly her age. Hours ago he had probably been reading by the dim light of an ornate table-top lamp, but now the book had fallen to his chest as he breathed deeply with steady sleep.

Kat crept into the room, acutely aware of the soft rumpling as she eased the drapes back over the open window, knowing that one wrong move could seal her demise. On the other hand, stealing a priceless painting from an _occupied_ room on her first solo heist would certainly provide stories for the family gatherings at Uncle Eddie's. She was momentarily dazzled by the thought of infamy, imagining her father's words of praise.

No. She certainly couldn't back out now.

Still, Kat couldn't stop herself from taking just one step closer to see the boy's face, mesmerized by the flickering shadows of firelight and the steady glow of the lamp that lit up features carved by _God_. Or, so her hormone-ridden twelve-year-old mind depicted, anyway. She halfway wished she could see his eyes; she bet the stolen Picasso that was hanging above Uncle Eddie's kitchen table they would be utterly magnificent.

Then she remembered a rather important rule of thievery: _get in, grab what you came for, and get out_. Nothing could be gained from hanging around admiring a boy she'd never know. So she turned and started for the pianoforte, and above it, her Monet.

It was easy getting to the piece, carefully climbing onto the large instrument to reach her ultimate objective. Her gloved hands ensured no trace of her would remain for the police to find; her shoes had been abandoned at the windowsill, so no dirt was tracked over the hardwood floors. She was doing everything correctly, and she still buzzed with the knowledge that she was actually _stealing_ a Monet.

The painting slid easily off its hook, without any alarms being triggered, once again the product of a very poor security system. Granted, she doubted many even knew that the Monet was _here_, so there probably wasn't much reason for the owners of this house to bug it with touch sensors. Triumphant, the priceless painting tucked carefully under one arm, Kat bent down to climb off the pianoforte.

But her socks didn't have the traction that she'd grown used to with the luxury of shoes, and before she could react her foot had slid on the polished wood of the large instrument. If her startled cry hadn't woken up the boy on the couch, then the loud banging of about seven different piano keys certainly did. She froze, completely stunned, as the boy jumped up and looked around wildly. And when his eyes fell on her, she couldn't help but think that she'd been right—they really were magnificent.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he demanded, storming around the couch and stopping just a few feet from her, gaze a mix between incredulous and furious. Fury won as he saw the painting in her hand, the way she was dressed in black from head to toe, and she knew he'd drawn the logical conclusion. And for once, she couldn't think of any lie to fix things.

So she distracted him instead, "I should ask you the same thing." This was a completely legitimate concern for Kat; she'd watched the house for _days_, hours spent keeping tabs on whoever went in and out, and it was only the _butler_. So how had this kid escaped her notice?

He looked taken aback that she'd countered his understandably angry statement, and for a moment the vehemence in his eyes dimmed just a little. She half wondered why he wasn't afraid of her. She knew that if an unknown someone broke into her home (if she had a steady one, that was) dressed entirely in black, and took a valuable painting off the wall, she'd be terrified. Which was one of the reasons she appreciated being the thief, not the terrified recipient.

Of course, this boy was completely ignoring that natural instinct, instead looking at her like she was a lunatic, "Aren't you a little young to be robbing… well, anything?" His voice was steady, cool and calm even in these circumstances. His eyes held intelligence and cunning and bravery and every other admirable trait Kat could think of in a man, and she found herself unable to speak for several beats. When she finally did, it was a half-hearted correction.

"I'm _stealing_, not robbing. Robbery is based on violence, and I don't plan on hurting you."

"Oh, well, that's good," he folded his arms, voice still unreadable as he regarded her. She didn't know if he was being sarcastic, or if he was actually serious, but she strongly suspected it was the former. He probably doubted she could hurt him, which was true. She was trained in the art of stealing, not the art of combat.

"Besides," she plowed right along, unable to stop talking (she blamed those eyes), "I'm twelve. That's plenty old enough; I've already stolen a tiara from the princess of Monaco." She didn't mention that her parents had done most of the work on that job—she'd just been the sobbing child that Princess Grace had consoled for exactly three minutes and twenty-four seconds. But he kept staring, so she continued talking, "_And_ I'll be flying to Switzerland next month to steal…" she cut herself off, realizing almost too late that she'd nearly divulged a family secret to an outsider. Another important rule of thievery: _keep your heists a secret, before and after they occur._

But instead of latching onto the idea of a possible theft halfway across the world, the boy simply smirked and said, "Where's Monaco?"

Kat blinked at him, completely taken off guard. She struggled to remember where the obscure country was located, and eventually mumbled, "Europe?"

He laughed, and it was a rather pleasant sound that almost made Kat forgot she was sitting in enemy territory, talking with the boy who might turn her over to the police in minutes. "So, let me get this straight. You've been a thief for a while."

"Since I was three," she retorted proudly. Then she wondered just _how_ _much_ she should be revealing to this guy. Anything she told him now could be another charge in a court of law.

He didn't notice her sudden and obvious change in demeanor. He simply watched her, obviously impressed, "So you can show me how to pick a lock, right?"

"… Maybe," she said, treading carefully in case he was trying to set her up. Imagine, the stories her family would tell if she, a professional con artist, was conned by a little rich boy. She held back a shudder.

He seemed to understand her hesitation, however, because he turned and walked to the couch, bending down to pick up the book that had been resting on his chest. Kat took the opportunity to slide off the pianoforte, the Monet still tucked protectively under her arms. The boy didn't appear to notice her change in position as he strolled back to her, holding the book out for her to see.

"The Art and Science of Lock Picking," she read the title aloud, and a grin touched her lips. "Funny, I have that same book at home." she said, fondly remembering the Christmas she'd found a first-edition signed copy underneath Uncle Eddie's tree.

"Good to know it's a reliable book," he remarked lightly, flipping through the well-worn pages. "I've read it cover to cover, but I still can't seem to get the top set of pins to stay up long enough."

Kat almost scoffed, taking on the pretentious role of a professional divulging tactics to an amateur, "There's only so much a book can teach you. After that, it's all practice."

"Can you show me how?"

His question took her by surprise, and she tensed slightly. If he was trying to get her to lower her guard, it wasn't going to work. The painting was in her hands… all she had to do was get out as inconspicuously as possible. And then an idea formed in her mind, and she smiled slowly, "Sure. Do you have a set of tools?"

His face brightened, and he nodded, "In my room upstairs. Come with me?"

"My parents say it's not appropriate for me to be in a boy's room without adult supervision," she lied smoothly, not missing a beat. After all, this was what she was born to do.

His cheeks colored the faintest shade of pink, and he nodded quickly, "Right, sorry. I apologize if that was too forward." She waved it off, and he squinted at her for a moment. "If I go get it, do you promise not to leave before I get back?"

"Of course," she smiled sweetly at him. "We're friends, aren't we?"

He looked mildly surprised at the word, but then a grin broke out over his face too, and she saw him for what he truly was: a lonely little boy. She felt a pang of sympathy for him, locked up in this huge house with no one but the butler to talk with. It was no wonder he was spending his time reading books on how to pick locks; he probably wanted out of the manor just as much as she did. As she pondered that thought, he held out his hand.

"Well, then, as your new friend, my name's W.W. Hale."

She frowned, ignoring his outstretched hand, "What do the W's stand for?"

He simply smirked at her, his expression amused as he lowered his hand, as if he'd known her his entire life and took great pleasure in keeping her guessing. She had a lingering feeling she'd never actually know what the W's stood for, but she sort of wanted to hang around for a few years and see if she could find out.

"What's your name?" he asked, ignoring her earlier question.

She could have given him one of her many fake names, complete with individual identities and pasts that she'd memorized years earlier. It would have been so easy to pretend she was Melanie O'Hara, or Erica Sampson. But as he waited patiently for her to respond, she answered confidently, "Katarina Bishop. Call me Kat." And when his smile reached those eyes, she felt no regret in divulging a thief's biggest secret.

"A pleasure," he said, and she knew he was telling the truth. Her heart warmed a little at making a friend outside her tight circle of family members.

Then W.W. Hale backed towards the door, still smiling at her, "I'll be right back. Please, make yourself comfortable." He gestured towards the plush couch by the fire, and for a second Kat was tempted. But then he disappeared out the door of the room, and the painting in her arms seemed to grow heavier every second. She knew she couldn't stay.

So, with a regretful look towards the open door, she stepped back to the window, disappearing behind the heavy drapes and slipping off into the night without looking back.

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Two days later, the butler found a package on the front porch of the mansion, and a single note attached to the top. He gave the package to his melancholy master, who brightened immediately as he skimmed the note.

_Wesley Warren Hale,_

_Sorry I couldn't stick around. Here's your painting back. Keep your eyes open, because someday I'll visit again and properly teach you how to pick a lock. Promise._

_ Your friend,_

_ Kat

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_

A/N: Hope you guys liked it! :) Drop me a review, because reviews inspire me, and I might end up writing another Heist Society fanfic if enough people like this one!


	2. Kats Don't Like Water

A/N: Yay! Uncommon Criminals has prompted me to return to this fic. Spoilers might be ahead.

Note-this is not a sequel to chapter 1. This is just another take on how Kat and Hale met, since Ally Carter confirmed that Kat was 13 when it happened, not 12 (as in my last chapter, even though she acted like a 9-year-old. Sorry about that. :P ). So, new take, fresh new perspective. Let me know what you guys think! 3

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**Kats Don't Like Water**

Ultimately, she settled for stealing it from right under his nose. There were other alternatives, other heists, but the best ones were complicated and required a crew that she didn't have the time to put together, not when the _W.W. Hale_ could set sail at any time.

Plus, she was the daughter of the best, and she'd be damned if she couldn't snatch this Monet before the next family dinner at Uncle Eddie's.

It was an easy mark, all things considered. Perfect for a quick job before the holidays. Plus it'd make a great gift to her father, who'd expressed his interest when he'd subtly suggested she track it down in the first place. After all, what better heist to solo? There was no security on the yacht, no hired guns to make sure thieves like her stayed away. She didn't know what kind of alarms rigged the Monet, since only about ten people in the world knew it was even _on_ the _W.W. Hale_, but she'd been well-trained. She would crack whatever the Hales could throw at her.

The only problem, the only bump in an otherwise smooth road, was the fact that the Monet was on a ship. Ships could _move_. They had a tendency to sail out without warning, and twice now she'd watched her mark disappear into the sunset on a line of lovely blue water and never return. The trickiest part was successfully casing the place with enough time to actually _pull_ the heist before Mr. Hale sped off towards a new tropical paradise.

Well, that, and the fact that it was a boat. On _water_. Katarina Bishop shuddered. She hated water. … No, that wasn't right. She hated the possibility of drowning, which held much more rationale in her mind. It was just self-preservation.

But the Monet was begging to be stolen. And if she didn't do it now, someone else would. Kat couldn't stand the thought of a cousin waving the Monet around and bragging about the job over Christmas. Not when it was _her_ heist. Not when her father was waiting to see her make him proud. She suspected even Uncle Eddie was intrigued to see how she'd fare.

If there was one thing she learned from watching the yacht, it was that Mr. Hale liked his parties. Every time he docked at port, it seemed like he was preparing to host another one, having caviar and champagne brought onto the ship in boxes. And she'd seen enough of the actual events to know exactly what kind of company the esteemed Mr. Hale kept.

He liked teenagers, apparently, because the girls walking onto his ship in bikinis and Ray-Bans were only a few years older than she was. What bothered her was that none of them seemed to mind the fact that Mr. Hale was easily three times older than they were—every time a new gaggle strolled onto the _W.W. Hale_, they always had big smiles and eager expressions.

It only firmed her resolve that the Monet didn't belong in the hands of such a pig.

Unfortunately, these parties left her with few options when it came to actually stealing the painting. They lasted most of the day, and at night the ship sailed out to sea. Most of the time it returned the next morning, ready for another bash, but twice it had left the Caribbean countries entirely and Kat had been forced to spend precious days tracking it back down again.

Mr. Hale rarely left the yacht, and never predictably. The best idea would be to scale the yacht from the back and sneak downstairs while Mr. Hale's teenagers kept him occupied. But that option required snorkeling at the very least, and Kat couldn't bring herself to consider it. She could pose as a worker bringing exquisite food onto the yacht, but she'd need a new identity, a uniform, and a box big enough to fit the Monet. Too much trouble, too little time.

The third option, however, kept her attention the longest. Every day it was a new slew of girls. Every day the party was crowded enough to slip onto the yacht unnoticed. Every day it was loud enough to steal a Monet with no one the wiser.

So when Kat saw the girls strolling up the dock towards the _W.W. Hale_ one hot afternoon, she was already prepared with her own suit to join them. She'd lifted a pair of expensive sunglasses, stuffed her bra and did her makeup just so to make her look a few years older, and when she ran up to the girls saying, "Sorry I'm late! My idiot driver got us lost," they barely hesitated before welcoming her into the group.

She had no problem getting onto the yacht. It was like her father had suspected: no security. This was very much a pleasure cruise for Mr. Hale, and he wouldn't let a little thing like thievery stand in his way of a good time. Regardless of the worth of the Monet just two decks down.

The girls spread out on the upper decks, dipping into the Jacuzzi and slathering themselves with sunscreen and pouring drinks from the mini-bar. There were a few male partygoers as well, far less than the girls, and Kat couldn't help it when her eyes drew to easily the most gorgeous one around. He was laughing as a pretty blonde tried on his sunglasses, looking as if he didn't have a care in the world. For a minute, she envied the blonde, wished she could be just another girl enjoying a rich party with that handsome boy.

But she had a job to do. Her eyes kept scanning, finally noting Mr. Hale on the top deck drifting through his guests. She made a disgusted face at his choice of company (such a creeper), but ultimately decided he was busy enough for now. The faster she got in and grabbed the Monet, the faster she could get back to America and the glory of another heist completed.

The way to blend in wasn't with stealth, she realized quickly, but pointed openness. Surveying the scene would raise suspicion if she didn't act like the other teenagers on the ship. With a laugh, she made her way to the bar for a drink (appearances only—she would never down alcohol on a heist). Once she completed that image, she felt safely invisible standing there in plain sight, and only then did she meander towards the door that led below deck.

It was easy enough to slip through the door and stumble down the stairs, pretending to be more than a little tipsy just in case someone was watching. But she was counting, calculating, the entire time. Eight steps to the lower deck. Fifteen down the hallway to the bedrooms. Escape routes could have included the balcony in the first room she peeked at, but again, the _water_. Not an option unless absolutely necessary. The better choice would be to simply walk out with the Monet safely sealed in her polka-dot beach bag.

The floor was essentially empty, so she went down another flight of stairs to find the master bedroom. She passed by two waiters on the way down, but neither spared her a glance, too busy working their way to the top deck with trays of hors d'œuvres. Finally, she stepped into the master suite, a beautiful room with a wide private balcony (floor-to-ceiling windows perfect for that horrid water escape), a king-sized bed, and ornate furniture.

And there, right above the ten-drawer dresser, hung her Monet. It was breathtaking, and as Kat clicked the door to the master suite closed, she found she couldn't pull her eyes away. Beautiful. Then the ship swayed a bit and she remembered exactly where she was, the spell broken. She got to work.

The Monet was poorly protected, just like she'd been lead to believe. No pressure-sensitive triggers. No cameras trained on it. Not even an _alarm_. The only thing that made it even a _tad_ more difficult (stress on "tad") was the fact that it had been literally bolted to the wall, undoubtedly in case of rough weather. They might as well have put a big sign on it saying, "Please, take me!"

"Don't mind if I do," Kat whispered, smirking.

She studied the metal plate that held it against the wall, found the screws without trouble. She was halfway through taking them out when the yacht lurched, making her nearly fall off the dresser. Her stomach lurched with the ship, and she bit back a groan. _Why_ did it have to be a _ship_? From now on, only dry heists. Ever.

She paused, realizing what a moving ship meant. Her idea of leaving by regular means flew out the perfectly translucent windows as she saw the docks slip away. They were moving. She had to get out of here _fast_, or else she'd be stuck on the _W.W. Hale_ at a party where she didn't belong with a painting that wasn't hers.

Crap.

The screws came off easily, and despite the urgent situation, Kat was careful as she lifted the Monet off the metal plate. She slid off the dresser just as the ship swayed again, and she stumbled a little, unused to the motion. The Monet fit perfectly in her waterproof bag, and she wasted no time in running for the balcony. The docks weren't that far away yet. She could swim back to shore with the Monet safely in tow before anyone realized it was gone. But as she perched on the balcony's railing, staring at the clear Caribbean water ten feet below, she froze.

And that was where the boy found her.

She hadn't even heard him come in, but she certainly knew when he grabbed her and pulled her off the railing in one swift move. She yelped as he towed her back inside the room, shying away from his touch as she instinctively moved the beach bag, and her Monet, behind her back.

"What the hell are you doing?" he demanded. His sunglasses were on the top of his head now, but he was still as breathtaking as he'd been up on deck. The pretty blonde girl apparently hadn't followed him downstairs. "Are you crazy?"

She was somewhat offended that he had to ask. "No," she said stiffly, simply.

He looked taken aback for a moment, staring at her like she was an absolute lunatic anyway, "Then _why_ did I come into my room to see you about to jump off the ship?"

"Your room?" Kat asked before she could help herself. She still had a long way to go before she'd be up to her father's skills as a con artist if she couldn't even control her words in front of this guy. She was supposed to deceive him, but she just stood there like an idiot.

"Yes," he said in irritation. "My room. Who did you come with? If Ricky set you up to this, I swear I'm going to—"

"He thought it'd be funny," Kat said, finally getting her head on straight enough to assume a character. And he gave her such a nice opening for it, too. She added a giggle and a ditzy smile for good measure. "The balcony thing was my touch. It worked—you totally freaked."

He narrowed his eyes at her, "It wasn't funny." But he stood aside to let her pass. "Get back up on deck. No one's supposed to be down here. And tell Ricky I'm going to have a word with him."

Kat couldn't believe it worked. She still had the problem of getting off the ship, but at least now one crisis was averted. Smiling still, she waved and skipped out of the room, feeling somewhat giddy at her con. But she hadn't made it three steps down the hall before a strong arm grabbed her shoulder to stop her progress.

"By the way," the guy drawled, staring down at her. She cursed the fact that she was so short. "Where's my Monet?"

Her face grew warm, but she blinked in confusion and said, "Your what?"

"Don't play dumb," he said casually, jerking a thumb towards her bag. "It's unbecoming on a young lady such as yourself."

"I guess the girls upstairs missed the memo," Kat replied, knowing she was blown. Her mind began racing escape routes. This was _not_ how this heist was supposed to go. It had seemed like an easy in-and-out, despite the ship bit. Who _was_ this guy?

He laughed and said, "They're just for my entertainment. But this is the most interesting thing to happen to me all year. Who'd have thought _my_ Monet would be a thief's prey." It wasn't a question, but an amused statement.

Kat answered anyway, "There's no security. If I didn't take it, then you can bet this yacht it'd be someone else sometime in the near future."

"That Monet's worth quite a bit more than my yacht," he said easily.

His yacht. His bedroom. Suddenly, Kat realized her gravest mistake. This entire time, she'd thought the old man was Mr. Hale, because surely the esteemed billionaire couldn't be as good-looking as the teenager before her. But she was wrong, so wrong. Because Mr. Hale was just a few years older than her, and he was still watching her with intelligent eyes, still smirking at the thought that a thief would be so bold as to steal his painting from right under his nose.

"_You're_ Hale," she whispered.

"Dashing good looks and all," he said, but there was no humor in the words. "Now, give me back my Monet, please."

She was compromised. She could never try for this painting again, not now that its owner knew her face, her game plan. But she couldn't go back empty-handed. She'd been following the _W.W. Hale_ for weeks trying to get her chance. This was the most humiliating moment of her life.

Her eyes drifted to the balcony, to freedom, to _water_, and she knew she'd be an idiot to try and get away with the Monet now. Even if she did manage to get to shore without drowning, Hale would be waiting with a yacht full of people and probably some type of private police force to apprehend her. No, she was finished.

And yet she couldn't seem to let go of the painting.

After a moment passed, Hale finally dropped his waiting hand and sighed, "All right, how about this. You're a pretty determined girl, that much is obvious. So, let's make a deal. You're pretty much stranded on my yacht at the moment, so your job is done for now. But in a few weeks, I'm going back to one of my countryside manors, and the Monet is coming with me.

"If you can figure out which manor I'll be in, and where the Monet is, you can have another stab at stealing it," Hale finished, eyes alight with the possibility. He seemed to love the idea of another clandestine heist taking place right under his roof. "Fair?"

Kat was starting to think _he_ was the lunatic. But the opportunity to steal the Monet again, without the _water_ this time, was too tempting to pass up. She reluctantly handed her beach bag over to him, but there was no regret in her voice as she said, "Deal."

She did love a challenge, after all.

He smiled at her, a brilliant smile that left her heart throbbing, and put the bag just inside his bedroom. When he closed the door, he didn't bother locking it. He just strode past her, calling over his shoulder, "Try and enjoy the party, since you're here. And please don't attempt to jump off the balcony again. It's just extra stress for everyone."

And then he was gone, leaving her alone just one door away from her painting.

Kat smirked and started up the stairs as well, leaving the Monet for another day.

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A/N: Yes, the older "Mr. Hale" was Marcus, in case you missed that. :P I tried to go in a new direction with this oneshot while still keeping the same format of my last one. If I get more clues about this meeting in the third book (here's hoping there IS a third book), then I think chapter 3 will be from Hale's POV.

Anyway, I love reviews. :) Thanks for reading!


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